


astra inclinant (sed non obligant)

by Draco_sollicitus



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Freetown, M/M, Sad Din Djarin, Slow Burn, Sometimes you just really love two dilfs and want to see them kiss, Tatooine, Tender Space Cowboys, post season two, references to slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: With the child returned to his own people, Din Djarin feels adrift. Lost among the stars.The weight of destiny (in the shape of a famed sword made of dark light, no less) threatens to crash into him at any moment, but Din has had enough of catastrophic fate and galaxy-changing events. He wants peace, or however close to that he can get as a Mandalorian.He returns to Tatooine. The work there should be reliable, he reasons, and he has allies enough between Mos Eisley and Freetown. But after he's invited to stay in Freetown and help in the reconstruction, both by building and fighting back the approach of the syndicates, Din finds himself wantingmorethan peace. More than an ally. More than what he thinks the galaxy will give him -And it's all thanks to that big-eyed, sweet-talking Marshal.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 32
Kudos: 150





	1. Return to Freetown

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!
> 
> If you are like me and have been consumed by the possibility of a MarshalMando romance, and you also yearn for the tenderness two Space Cowboys can construct together at the edge of civilization while they claw back whatever peace and happiness they can from a largely cruel galaxy, well -- I hope this is the fic for you!
> 
> General warnings are posted at the start of each chapter! (Nothing much in chapter one - just general Sad Din Hours). There will eventually be some adult lovin', but the boys will have to work for it.  
> Anyway! Thank you for giving this fic a chance, and I hope you enjoy chapter one!

Tatooine was not a beautiful place. 

There were deep scars rutted into the earth by both ship and beast; dunes built up against a pale blue sky, too hot and suns-bright to offer any kind of beauty to the achingly coarse sand that stretched on endlessly. No, it was not a beautiful place, but it was a place with work. With the promise of anonymity, or as close to it as he could salvage these days.

So, with hands empty, Din returned.

He had been a Mandalorian once. Proud of his guild and the beskar he wore, loyal only to his oath, his creed. But he had been worn down, as surely as bodies turned to sun-bleached bone in this desert, and he had been broken. He had removed his helmet, forsaken his oath, and almost failed in returning a foundling to its people. Its true people.

( _ He doesn’t want to go with you.  _ Weak words, and said to the man who was, if the stories from a reluctantly impressed Cara Dune were accurate, almost single-handedly responsible for the fall of the Empire. Weakness, from a weak man).

His hands were empty now. 

The well-worn gloves creaked as he flipped the switches for his landing gear, leaning slightly to the left to compensate for the lurch of contact to the ground, wincing at the pain that lanced up through his sore knee. He stood fluidly, betraying no sign of a strained muscle or cracked rib, and exited the craft. If his eyes flitted to the back corner of the cockpit, if his habit betrayed him, Din did not allow it to consume him. He continued on. Like it was now the only way he knew.

There were shouts from the cantina at the heart of Freetown, reaching up to him through the arid, cool night air. He looked down at the little town - grown since his last visit only four months ago - and wondered at it. It would be foolish to think the scars of the slavers, the scars of the krayt dragon, would have faded by now. If anything, the town, grown lopsided and swollen at the edges with new settlements, looked far worse than most towns Din had visited recently. Not a great contest to lose. But, he could hear laughter from the cantina, and music. He could see people dancing, their shadows stretched out on the spilled light pouring from the bar. He could see life, defiant and true. 

Not a terrible place, then. 

Din paused a moment and let himself watch. He had never been a man to watch before; he had always been a man to leave.

And now he had been left. 

He had been a Mandalorian once, but it was not that loss that rattled around with him inside his beskar, shaking deep into his core as flecks of sand burrowed in through the seams as assuredly as the barely held-back grief. He had been a Mandalorian once, but that was not what sat with him as he curled up in the cot at the back of his borrowed ship. He had been a Mandalorian once, but that was no matter now. 

No. What cracked him open and burnt at the seams was the knowledge that he had, for a brief time, been more than a Mandalorian. More than his creed, more than a bounty hunter, more than a lost man from a merely surviving civilization. 

He had been a father once.

(And now he was not)

* * *

Peli Motto was not amused to see him.

“Heard you blasted the  _ Razor Crest  _ something fierce.” 

Motto fussed with selenium coils rather than look at him. A DUM-droid timidly extended a claw to assist, and she slapped it away, tightening it herself.

“You did?” Din wondered if his surprise communicated through the helmet.

“Heard that little baby ate half the spawn before you even made it to Trask.”

He stiffened under the armor, but she continued to snap at him.

“If I had known you hadn’t covered  _ stopping the infant from eating other babies  _ in your parenting classes, I woulda sent Frog-Lady with someone else! Ha!” Motto finished the coiling and dropped it into the waiting claws of the DUM-droid.

Din still hadn’t moved. Motto saw him there, frozen, and then tilted her head with a frown.

“Where is that little womp-rat?”

He opened his mouth. No sound emerged. His trigger finger itched in his gloves. He didn’t move.

Motto’s face softened at once, becoming vulnerable under decades-worth of sunstains and dust. Din wished she’d just keep shouting.

“Hey.” She walked forward and patted his bicep; her mittened hands made soft  _ thumps  _ of contact against the beskar. Each one echoed dully in his chest, which felt strangely emptier than he could ever recall it feeling. 

“Is he hurt?”

This time, he managed to shake his head.

“Sick?”

Another shake of the head.

“...lost?” Her voice cracked a little, but then her chin tilted back and her eyes filled with steely spirit. “We’ll get him back. I heard you managed to get together quite a crew - but if they weren’t enough, ol’ Peli Motto will be on the case, don’t you doubt it for a second, Mr. Mando, we’ll figure it out-”

“He isn’t lost.” The words creaked from him. The hinge of his mouth was rusty with disuse.

How long had it been since he spoke more than a syllable or two at a time? Since that X-Wing had departed, with half his heart onboard, off to places he couldn’t follow?

Motto waved at her R5-D4 unit, and it scooted a rolling, small workbench towards him. 

“Have a sit down, Mando, come on then.” 

Somehow, the small woman (who barely came up to his shoulder), managed to bully him into sitting down; Din found himself too tired to fight against it, and he sagged into the seat when he was seated. Motto hopped up on a rickety stool and crossed her arms.

“Tell me.”

He did. Everything. In detail. From the Frog-Lady to Ahsoka Tano to the magic rock and Gideon, to that Imp-hold out to the light cruiser. To the Jedi who came and took Grogu away.

“Well, that’s easy enough then,” Motto said after he’d finished explaining it. “You need to go get him back! Tell that Sky-man that he made a mistake.”

“He didn’t make the choice. Grogu did.” Din barely held back a sigh. “And it was Skywalker. Famous Jedi. Apparently.”

A frown crossed her face.

“Funny thing.” She rubbed her jaw, staring off into space. “I knew a Skywalker, once. Almost a decade ago - real cute kid.  _ Obsessed  _ with this pilot, Biggs Darklighter. Pretty sure I caught ‘em necking once, out near Mos Eisley.”

Din’s brow furrowed. Tried to reconcile the intense, brooding hero from the cruiser with something _ real cute.  _ He’d been gentle, definitely - but the man had been dangerous. Din had experienced enough of the galaxy to know danger when he saw it.

Motto shrugged and clapped her hands to her knees. “No relation, I’m sure. That kid was a total geek. Caught him crying over new mech-parts at the Tosche Station more than once.”

“Hm.”

“If you aren’t gonna go get the kid back - what are you gonna do, Mando?”

“I thought … you might need some help.” He squirmed, barely, at the flinty look in her eye. “I need to lay low for a while. Earn some honest credits …. Maybe … help people.”

The weight of the Darksaber crushed down on him even now, even with the thing disengaged and its hilt clipped to Din’s belt. He’d been briefed on what it meant, to wield it; but, he was not ready. He was not sure what to make of it - if he even thought it was true. 

Bo-Katan should wield it, but she’d refused it. 

(He didn’t relish the thought of her appearing randomly and taking it by force - he’d had his ass kicked enough this year already).

“Help some people.” Motto considered this and then shrugged. “I could use some help here and there. Not right now, of course. Come back in … a week or so. I’ll probably need help getting this next shipment across the dunes. Lots of bandits these days.”

“Alright.” Din nodded.

“We can talk payment when you come back.” Motto hopped off her stool at the sound of loud clanging from across the hangar. “No! You idiots, that’s  _ flammable _ !”

A bloom of flame and heat told Din that it was probably time he was on his way. With a wave from Motto as she scurried to put out the fire, he was on his way off, back to his borrowed ship.

(And if his hand strayed to his hip as he walked to his speeder, if he double checked the other seat as though waiting to see if a passenger was safely strapped in, cooing and waving up at him, Din didn’t think twice about it. There was no time for thinking twice in the desert)

* * *

In the evening, Din went into Freetown.

The streets were no longer vacant with nervous citizens awaiting the next tremor from the dragon in the tenuous safety of their homes. Now, even with the twin suns setting, the market was set up and multiple stalls’ vendors called their wares out to passersby. 

Din hung back along the edge of the crowd and eyed it warily. He still did not trust crowds, and this place was not nearly large enough for a man like him, dressed like him, to be lost easily among the people.

With his eye on the distant light of the cantina at the other end of the street, he edged along the buildings, walking slowly and keeping an ear out for trouble.

A clutter of children ran past, laughing and pushing and smiling - one even stopped to beam up at him, gap-toothed and bright - and he paused for a moment, his eyes following the group. A pang echoed beneath his beskar, and his throat closed up inexplicably in resonance with it.

There was a soft rustle of fabric at his side. Din sighed, reached out to catch the hand of the culprit trying to pickpocket him, but before he could, a familiar voice drawled out.

“Kid, that’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve seen today.” 

Cobb Vanth, the Marshal himself, leaned against a nearby doorframe. There was a twinkle in his eye as he smiled at the tiny figure crouched behind Din’s cape. 

“What’d I tell you, Richorn? I catch you pickin’ any more pockets, and -”

“You’d turn me into a saddlebag. Sir.” Richorn peered around Din’s leg, bright yellow eyes wide as saucers.

“He wouldn’t.” Din spoke softly, startling the small child, and would-be thief, by accident. 

He smiled at the child, wanting to reassure.

( _ He cannot see you,  _ Din remembered.  _ There is no reason to smile _ )

“Your mark happens to be one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy,” Vanth continued in a pleasant drawl. His jaw worked over something he’d been chewing, and he swallowed a little and then winked at Din. 

(Odd. Why would he wink? They had not been conspirators since the battle with the krayt dragon, some four months ago. Winks established bonds. Connections. Understanding. The only thing Din understood about Cobb Vanth was that he cared deeply about his town, and was truly a man of his word)

Din wondered if he should try winking. No one would be able to see him if he couldn’t do it. The thought was oddly noncomforting.

“Sorry.” Richorn took a step back, light green hands twisting together. “Sorry. Sir. Sirs. Mr. Marshal. And Mr. …”

“This here’s a Mando-lorian.” The tone and cadence of Vanth’s voice was utterly disrespectful, but the smile on his face was light, non-offensive. “Famous warrior. Great killer. You can call him Mando. I do.”

“Mr. Mando.”

Din crouched down until he was almost at eye-level with Richorn. “Are you hungry?”

He remembered being hungry enough to steal, in the days before his parents had been slaughtered. Then, he had been a foundling, and his guardians had taken deep pains to ensure he’d never feel hunger under their care.

(He worried, still, that he had failed Grogu in the days he could not afford their meals; he remembered the child’s joy in a simple cookie or pack of dried fruit. He wondered if the Jedi was a better guardian, then stopped wondering. Of course the Jedi was a better guardian).

Richorn nodded a little, shoulders hunched in.

Din sighed, unclipped his money bag from his belt, and shook out a loose credit chip. “Here. No more stealing. Make it last.”

Bright yellow eyes darted to Vanth in the doorway as though confirming this were real and not some trap devised by the Marshal to catch out thieves at the last moment. Din waited patiently, and he could see Vanth nod, once, out of the corner of his eyes.

“Thank you!” Richorn snatched the chip and then sprinted out of sight, little limbs moving with the confident clumsiness of youth.

“Not sure if that was teachin’ the little sprout a lesson or not,” Vanth commented as Din stood back up. 

“Sometimes lessons shouldn’t be learned,” Din countered. “Hunger is one of those lessons.”

Vanth nodded, slowly. “I reckon you’re right, Mando.”

The door to the cantina up the road opened, and light spilled out against the sand. Din remembered how it had looked last night, that beacon of life and brightness against the dark. Raucous laughter could be heard once more, and when the door closed, Din’s eyes returned to Vanth, who hadn’t moved from his station in the doorway.

His eyes were curiously blue, growing dark as the setting suns blazed behind him, casting eerie shadows through Freetown. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes didn’t move as he studied Din, and although he was wearing enough beskar to take on a ship of Imperials and survive, he felt naked. Exposed.

Vanth blinked, and the intensity of his gaze passed. He stood up straight and gestured down the street towards the cantina. 

“Seeing as you're down a credit or two; can I buy you a drink, Mr. Mando?”

Din considered this. Considered sitting in a squalid cantina with the sort of people he’d probably have to take a bounty on in the next year, based on crime statistics and probability. The cantina that probably had people he’d already collected bounties on. Thought about sitting in the corner, making small talk, sipping hullstripper with carefully controlled movements of his helmet. 

Thought about Cobb Vanth, someone whose word was true and good, someone who cared for his people, someone who hadn’t thought twice about making a deal with a Mandalorian, someone who hadn’t even considered putting a blaster bolt in his back at multiple opportunities. 

Someone who remembered Grogu, but whose eyes didn’t immediately track to Din’s side, or whose mouth didn't ask uncomfortable conversations.

“Maybe we can finish what we started last time you visited,” Vanth continued. “See who’s the faster draw and have that shooting competition at last.”

“Just the drink would be fine,” Din said, not sure why his chest constricted at the way the corner of Vanth’s lip twitched upward. “Thank you.”

Vanth flourished his hand down the street once more. “After you, Mando.”


	2. An Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din completes some work for Motto, and then returns to Freetown for an unexpected conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the longest break ever between chapters, I was having the time of my life (/s) with writer's block and busy busy at work!
> 
> General warnings for the chapter:  
> Canon typical violence  
> Death of unnamed characters (killed by Mando)  
> References to slavery  
> Brief mention of sex

“What’s a pit mechanic doing with these materials?”

Motto didn’t bother to look up from her work. “I’m a pit mechanic who works on Tatooine.” She shrugged and jabbed a hydrospanner in the direction of the crates. “Folks’ll pay for those parts around here.”

Din considered this; he nodded, although Motto wasn’t looking in his direction. “And all I have to do is get it across Ebe Crater, to a settlement to the southwest.” He squinted a little. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” Motto twirled her spanner like a baton. “Alright. One catch. There’s been talk of … bandits, as I’ve told you.”

“I can handle bandits.” 

“Maybe … they aren’t bandits.” She set the spanner down and tilted her head up to look at him. “Let’s say they’re Syndicate.”

“Red Key?” Din grunted. He’d heard enough of that crew from the Marshal and others in Freetown. “Last I saw of them, they weren’t much for fighting. Too gorged on the bounty of a fragmented empire. Leeches are easy to kill.”

Motto’s eyebrows nearly vanished amid the wrinkles on her forehead and wisps of bangs. 

“What.”

“Nothing.” She wiped her hands on a spare rag. “That was near poetical, is all.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway. That’s who to keep an eye out for. Syndicate crews, looking to steal a good haul, and kill whoever’s carrying it.”

“If that’s all.”

“Mhm.” Motto waved a hand at him. “That’s all. Toodle-oo, off you go.”

Din considered the haul one last time, weighed what he knew of the Red Key and the terrain between himself and the destination, and then sighed. 

He really regretted shaking Motto’s hand before she explained the full gig to him. But it was not in the code of the Mandalorian to deny a contract made; no use crying over spilt blue milk.

Din walked to the speeder that would pull the crates. Unbidden, an image of bright blue against a rough burlap cloak came to his mind. He pushed it down and climbed into the pilot’s seat. 

“I should be back by sunsdown,” he informed Motto gruffly.

“Unless you’re dead!” was her chipper response. He shot her a look over his shoulder, and she managed to read it through the beskar. “I mean, don’t die of course.”

“Of course.” With a twist of the throttle, he was off.

But he was smiling now, at least.

* * *

Trouble hit as he was crossing into the crater.

A big trip wire, not unlike another he’d come across in a very similar situation to this, popped up as he was nearing a section of large rocks. Din considered the size of the rock, and the quality of the trip wire.

Part of him longed to crash into the wire. Cause a scene. Appear to be in chaos. Then, when the Raiders descended on him, attack. Incapacitate. Destroy. Wouldn’t be hard to take down some low-level thugs who were probably starving since their faux-mining operation collapsed and Vanth chased them out of another settlement.

Then, Din remembered his cargo. Sighed. 

Slowed down.

He sat on the speeder, its twin-engines shuddering in protest at the stall; his eyes surveyed the ridge in front of him. The air in the near distance shimmered against the baking, compacted sand as the suns blazed down unforgivingly, creating a warp in the air that seemed to dance like arcs of light off of water. 

But this was no lake, not anymore. Tatooine was not merciful; it held no beauty most days. 

The figures appeared at last, three at first, and then seven. Din tested the throttle and considered the benefits of turning away and trying to make it around the Ebe to where he needed to be. But it would add hours to his travels, and he’d rather not chance seeing these men again after sunsdown.

Two of them approached, their shadows slithering down the rock and then slouching towards him as they walked across the sand. Both had assault rifles strapped to their back, hoods pulled up against the suns’ heat. 

“I need to cross.” Din didn’t even reach for a blaster. It was not smart to shoot at enemies when they outnumbered you. Better to wait and use the tumult of their own movements to decide what to do. 

“We hear you have precious cargo,” the man on the left announced. His eyes were a dark brown, and Din saw how they lingered on the strapped-down crates.

“Nothing you’d be interested in.” 

A lie, of course. He was positive this was one of the more valuable hauls that this area of the planet had seen in quite some time. 

“I just need to get this to the folks who are paying for it. I do not intend to stay in your territory.” 

Perhaps they were just a normal gang in that respect; he could give them some sort of fee to cross. Not all gang members were evil; some were simply desperate for payment. And as someone who also relied on payment, Din was not inclined to judge the galaxy’s people for the same.

“Not the crates.” The man on the right spoke now. “We want the Child.”

Din stiffened. His shoulders squared without his realizing it, broadening his appearance as his feet planted more firmly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Imps will pay highly for such a bounty,” the man continued, clearly not realizing the dangerous territory on which he now stood. “And we’d like to collect.”

“I hate to disappoint you.” Din spoke calmly, but his hand twitched imperceptibly towards his blaster. “Not sure if a mining corporation is any place for a child, though.”

“Mining?” The man laughed, and so did his associate. One lowered his hood, and Din noted the large tattoo on his forehead, a black symbol against pale pink skin. “I think you’ve mistaken us for someone else.”

The tattoo registered:  _ Black Sun.  _

Inwardly, he cursed Motto, but he could barely finish the curse before both men moved to shoot. 

The laser blasts bounced off the beskar, and Din felt each shot resonate, jarring his balance only slightly as he strode forward; the men continued to shoot, and he lifted his hand, triggering the rockets aligned with his wrist motions. The first round of ammo took out the men in front of him, and the second round wiped out the third and fourth man waiting to strike behind the ridge, now in his line of sight.

He heard shouts in Huttese as he neared the gap in the rocks, and there was a vibration through his beskar that signaled an ammo different from typical blasterfire; Din looked up and saw the long-range weapon in the hands of the fifth man. It piqued his interest immediately.

“Hm.”

While he considered this exciting development, a sensor indicated an enemy approaching from rear; Din engaged a volley of smaller blast pellets from the back of his armor, while striding towards the man lying on his belly, long-range weapon now abandoned for a typical hip-blaster, round after round uselessly pinging off the beskar. 

With screams of pain, the ammunition made impact with the sixth and seventh men, and plumes of fire and shrapnel shredded through bantha-leather armor. And still the last man alive continued to fire.

He sighed. It was all very noisy. He would have rather paid these men some sort of toll.

With a detached competence he took no pride in, Din wrenched the blaster out of the man’s hand after it jammed from over-firing, flipped it neatly in his grip, and then slammed the stock against the man’s skull with a dull crack.

He considered his slumped form. Din felt nothing towards the man. Some distant pity, perhaps, at the symbol emblazoned on his skull. He wondered if the man really wanted to be here. If he had a family. If he had been a slave. Din considered for a moment a reality in which his clan had not found him beneath the rubble, but a syndicate. A reality where his own face bore the tattoo of the Black Sun, or his back the brand of the Red Key. Destiny was a strange thing.

But it was not for a Mandalorian to quibble over.

Din felt nothing towards the man. But his friend had mentioned the Child, and he wasn’t about to let interest in the Child go by without obliterating any potential threat, Jedi or no. It was simple math.

He shot the still breathing man once, a clean and efficient kill, and took from his cooling hands the long-range weapon. Two minutes later, he was climbing aboard his speeder once more, the amban phase-pulse blaster now strapped to his back, its weight a familiar comfort that he had not known since Gideon had obliterated  _ Razor Crest. _

And he was on his way once more.

* * *

“We haven’t had a shipment in months,” a frail woman told him as she examined the crates. “And you’re sure there’s … no additional fee?”

“Fee?” Din asked, confused. “No. Motto said the payment was already decided. Whatever you discussed is what I’ll collect.”

“Oh.” The woman blinked. It looked as though sand had caked into the cracks along her forehead and cheeks, but she held herself with wiry strength, bands of fabric wound around thin but muscled arms. 

“Give me a moment, Mandalorian.”

A small child regarded him from the shadow of the doorway; the mother passed him or her with a thin hand on sand-brown hair, and the kid studied Din with an intense interest and furrowed brow. 

“Is that your name?” The child asked in a reed-thin voice. “Mand-mando-mandlorn?”

“I-” Din considered giving his name to the child, surprised at how readily he even considered it. “I have not been called by my name for a long time. What’s your name?”

“Emna.”

“Emna.” Din smiled at the child, and then shook himself at his repeated stupidity. This child had no way of knowing that he was smiling.

Oddly though, a brief smile crossed over the child’s seemingly permanently worried expression, as though she could sense his smile and wanted to return it. Like a gift. A hug. A debt. A kindness.

He was spared further conversation by the mother’s return.

“If this is all Motto wants, then …” The mother’s hands fretted with the fraying edges of her robes as she passed over a parcel to Din. “It’s not much.”

He weighed it in his hands. It felt like fabric. He said as much to the woman, and she nodded.

“I … I make clothing, sometimes, if I can get enough fabric. I made Peli Motto a shirt years back, and she said that she needed another. Something about … showing off for her sabacc club at the cantina.”

Din chuckled, surprised at the exchange. It did not seem a fair one, but then he looked around the crumbling homestead, and the collapsing infrastructure of it all. He remembered the crates he’d killed to protect, the parts that would return to this farm, bring moisture forth from dying earth. 

The parts which would now fix a thing that saved lives, that created life.

A strange exchange indeed.

“That sounds like Motto. Although she doesn’t need any help showing off.”

Now the woman smiled at him. Odd. He was not used to smiles. Or small talk. He shuffled his feet.

“Thank you,” she said as he walked to the speeder. 

He paused before climbing on, and looked back at the woman, at her proud smallness, and the little girl who clung to her mother’s hand; their shadows stretched out, long and twining against the land, their farm still standing behind them.

“Do you need any help?” He offered awkwardly. “Fixing your regulator, I mean. Or with the - there’s syndicate activity nearby. I could-”

“We can handle ourselves, Mandalorian.” The woman did not speak unkindly. Only firmly. “Thank you for everything you’ve done so far.”

He nodded; a moment later, Din left the farm behind.

* * *

After a long, firm conversation with Motto about the difference between bantha-brained Red Key flunkies and  _ Black Sun operatives,  _ Din headed back towards Freetown, hand still smarting slightly from the swat Motto had directed at it when she deemed his ‘lecture had gone on for long enough, thank you very much.’

As he neared the town from the northeast, the suns low in the sky, small figures waved him down from the path. For some reason, he complied.

Big, glowing circles stared up at him from the darkness of their drawn hoods; the Jawas babbled at him excitedly, their eerie gazes made brighter by the setting suns, small hands gesticulating dramatically as they explained their dilemma, waving at the blaster strapped to his back.

He sighed.

“Egg?”

“ _ UTINNI _ !” They screeched as one.

Ugh. Egg.

* * *

The suns were well and truly down when he slumped against a wall near a water-pump, eager for something other than sonic to blast off some of the egg grossness from his shinguards.

The tacky goo did not come off easily, even when he crouched and grabbed handfuls of sand in an attempt to scrape it off. A low chuckle greeted his ears as he worked furiously; he looked up and felt his face flush.

(Inexplicable; he must have worked too long in the suns today, perhaps the temperature regulator in his armor was fried, because there was no other reason for his face to feel hot)

“Marshal.”

“Mando.” 

Cobb Vanth was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed and face lit up with an intensely amused grin. His eyes appeared brown tonight in the dim glow of a nearby lantern. Din cast his gaze back down at his stained shinguards and continued to scrub.

“Been there long?” Good. He sounded annoyed. Irate. Not embarrassed.

“Long enough to know you musta been conned by those little Jawa buddies today.” 

Din looked up at him again, frowning. “Conned?”

“Let me guess. They got you with the whole --” The marshal waved his hands around, making his eyes comically large. “Song and dance. I did it for them once, nearly got gored. Thought I was savin’ some priceless artifact. Turns out they were just interested in the galaxy’s most dangerous breakfast food.”

“I believe the mudhorn egg gives them sustenance for a significant period of time,” Din said, not sure why he was defending the Jawas. “And they had already acquired it. They needed help … preparing it.”

Cobb giggled. Actually giggled. Din stared. He was not aware full grown men, especially muscular, dangerous men, could giggle. 

But there he was, shoulders heaving, cheeks tinted pink, as he shook his head and laughed. (At Din, Din’s brain supplied unhelpfully. He was laughing  _ at  _ Din).

(Oddly, it was such a pleasant sound, he couldn’t find it in himself to be irritated).

Not to give Vanth the wrong impression, Din scowled and returned to scrubbing his equipment.

“You’re a short order cook for Jawas,” Vanth finally said, chuckles abating for the time being. “And you … you had a kitchen accident.”

“Hm.”

“Oh, don’t go back to grunting,” Vanth teased. “We’re past all that.”

“Are we?” Din stood, having decided his armor was clean enough. 

He could rest in his ship for the night, and then return to Motto in the morning to see if more work was needed. Or perhaps he could return to the farm. The woman had said they were fine, but Emna was so small, and if the mother was distracted while repairing equipment, the syndicate could approach from any direction. Perhaps if he laid out traps -

“Come back to mine,” Vanth offered. 

Din stared at him, having stood fully now. His fingers felt strangely not-his as they dangled in space.

“That’s not necessary,” he said. “I have shelter of my own.”

“You don’t hafta spend the night,” the marshal countered in a voice that implied  _ idiot. _

Din’s mind raced and considered other implications. It had been some time since he had been with any other life-form (and honestly, a very long time since he’d even  _ thought  _ about sex. The Child had been his sole focus for so long, and he hadn’t the energy for even thoughts of that nature for over a year)

While he stood there, feeling as though his brain were short-circuiting, Vanth gestured at his shinguards with a dramatic, put-upon sigh. 

“I have armor polish that isn’t going to any use, since some big, muscle-headed bounty hunter showed up and swiped my armor. You can use it to clean yourself up without usin’ up my town’s water.”

“I used less than 100 mils,” Din said swiftly. “I can find means to replace-”

“Ain’t even fun to tease you,” Vanth muttered. “C’mon now, Mando. Come on back to mine, and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

The marshal’s house was near the town center, which made sense in a way. Freetown was much more developed than it had been months ago, but it was still radiating out from that original stretch of houses. Vanth’s appeared to be one of the oldest, its front structure a wobbling lean-to that had been built up and out by mud-caked duracrete to form a more sturdy building.

It was humble inside, but clean. There was a fire pit in the corner with scrubbed-down cookware stacked neatly on a set of hand-made shelves. A sturdy bed in the corner, with clean but frayed sheets. There was stitching to mend tears here and there, and Din found the sight of the neat stitches to be pleasing, respectable. He’d mended the Child’s clothes in similar ways - no use in throwing away a perfectly good item for a small tear, not when it could be fixed.

Cobb Vanth was the most powerful person in Freetown, or at least, that was the way Din understood it. But he didn’t wear power like some of the small-town marshals and sheriffs and mayors Din had met in the various backwaters he’d struggled through in his time as a bounty hunter. His house was nice, certainly - but because there was pride taken in it. And that pride didn’t seem to come at the cost of his people.

He groaned a little as he sunk onto the padded bench Vanth indicated with a gloved hand. 

“Rough day?”

“You could say that.” Din peeled off his shinguard, feeling strangely naked even though he was still wearing pants beneath that part of his armor. 

The marshal passed him a rag soaked in polish, and Din started to clean. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Vanth asked. It sounded as though he’d be perfectly content no matter what Din decided; sure enough, he grabbed a stack of mending from a basket near the fire pit and a needle. He settled at the end of the bench, some four feet away from Din, and began to stitch.

He saw Din watching him, and held up the fabric with a shrug. “One of our new citizens just had a baby, and her oldest keeps growin’ out of his shirts. Told her I’d mend up one of mine for him.”

And then he went back to work, as though such pointless kindness wasn’t something worth talking about.

“Hm.” 

Vanth didn’t seem perturbed at his perceived lack of interest, and returned to his stitches. After a moment, Din returned to his cleaning.

“Ran a bunch of parts to a settlement southwest of Ebe Crater,” he offered, not sure why he was even talking. 

He ran the rag through a groove in the leather; he noticed some egg had caught along the armor plates near his knee and groaned inwardly. Oh well. Might as well clean that too. 

“The Walpden settlement,” Vanth noted, and Din shrugged as he pulled the armor from his upper leg and began to clean that too. 

“Daughter’s name was Emna,” Din said, not sure of what else to note.

“She’s a real pistol when you get to know her,” Vanth said with a fond chuckle, and continued to stitch. “They used to live here, but they packed up after the dad …” 

Vanth trailed off.

Din waited for him to resume.

“He, um, died in the … assault on the krayt dragon,” Vanth said softly.

“Oh.” Din thought about this. Remembered how the woman knew he was a Mandalorian. Wondered if she pieced together the hand he had in the assault, the one that had killed her husband.

“Yeah.” Vanth shook his head. “Ma’s a tough one, but I’m glad Motto thought to send somethin’ out their way. It can be hard out here, if you’re on your own.”

“She should have some sort of protection,” Din said. “The syndicate--”

“Red Key botherin’ them?” Vanth scoffed, his body language radiating tension, voice dripping with disgust. “Good karking luck. Tessa was a kriffing sharpshooter for the Rebels. She’ll knock the plasma out of them before they get within spitting distance of her property.”

The thought was a pleasing one. 

“Not Red Key,” Din said, and Vanth stiffened more, his hands stilling. “Black Sun. Killed seven of them on my way in.”

“Good.” Vanth spat the word, a vicious satisfaction reverberating in it. “Syndicate scumbags are crawling all over the place these days - but you’re sure it was Black Sun?”

“Saw the marks myself.”

Vanth cast the mending aside with a scoff of anger, and Din stilled his own movements, watching the man’s profile warily. 

“Jabba Desilijic Tiure,” Vanth sneered after a long moment. “I’m sure you know the name.”

“I’m … familiar with it,” Din said with apprehension.

“When he died - choked out by Princess Leia Organa herself, as the story goes, which is an  _ incredible  _ folk tale, and I’ll eat my boot if it’s true - it left behind a massive power vacuum in these parts. Red Key was the first to really make the move on it, most of the syndicates in the area were spiraling outta control as the Empire collapsed. But they busied themselves with the ‘mining’ operation,” and he was still spitting the words, “hiding their Spice and their weapons dealing and their  _ slave  _ business in plain sight as the New Republic did kriff-all to stop it. But now you’re telling me  _ Black Sun  _ is on Tatooine officially, and close enough to mess with hard-working, honest free people as they try to make a living - it’s enough to make me spit blood.” 

Vanth quieted, appearing very self-conscious suddenly. Din wondered if he were wishing for the safety of Fett’s old helmet. The marshal cleared his throat. “I hate them. I’d kill them all if I could.”

Din considered this, his fingers fidgeting over the armor plating. “I’d help,” he said truthfully.

Vanth turned his head and looked at him, and not for the first time, Din felt as though his gaze could peel away each layer of beskar, his eyes green in the low light of his home, the red-caked wall behind him drawing out different hues in his hair as well. 

(Pretty features, Din realized, pretty features carved onto something that should be far from delicate)

He wondered what the marshal saw when he looked at Din so openly, the pain and anger of the previous moment still echoed in his eyes. He felt as though he were cheating because Vanth couldn’t, and never would see the pain in Din’s own eyes.

Vanth smiled at him. A small thing, but a real one. No hint of teasing. He nodded once, as though in approval. 

“I’d probably let you.” He picked up his mending and resumed his work. After a quiet moment where their hands moved purposefully, Vanth cheerfully added on, “be a damned fool not to. Lunatic who blew up a krayt dragon from the inside.”

“Hm.” Din was glad Vanth couldn’t see his smile - not when he was unsure of its origin.

When Din deemed his armor clean enough, he strapped the plating back on, and then the shinguard, and thanked Vanth genuinely. He did not relish the long, dark walk back to his ship, but he felt awkward imposing on the marshal’s hospitality for another moment.

“If you’re in the area, and intend to stay for a little while,” Vanth began, and Din stiffened nervously where he stood in the doorway, one foot already across the threshold.

(He would ask him to lay low, Din figured, Vanth would ask him to not cause trouble, not bring trouble to Freetown, not deal with more Tusken raiders, to be something quiet and unseen-)

“I could use your help,” Vanth finished, and Din’s face morphed in unseen surprise.

“We’re still building up the settlement, and I could use someone around who doesn’t mind hard work, and who could maybe make sure our backs are safe while we’re busy.” Vanth walked forward and held out his hand. 

It looked oddly slender in the light of his clean and warm home; Din felt the cool desert air at his back, as he contemplated Vanth’s hand and his offer. Something slipped loose inside of him, something beyond common sense, and his mind was made up.

He took Vanth’s hand. “Alright. Deal.”

Vanth’s eyes crinkled at the corners as they shook. “It’s not one of those Mando-contracts y’all are so fond of,” he pointed out, releasing Din’s hand. “You can back out at any point. Keep whatever hours you need to - it’ll just be nice to have you around.”

“Of course.” There was nothing left to say, so he turned and walked off through the darkness.

The tips of his fingers felt oddly cold as he walked back to his ship; when he lay down in the too narrow cot that night, all he could think about was the ludicrous concept that it could ever be nice to have  _ him  _ around.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your super kind comments from the first chapter, and I hope the third pops up much faster! Please let me know what you think (and if you have a preference for how slow burn this is going to be - honestly i could drag this out to be a super long fic, or five-ish chapters!!! and I could have them do the Deed very quickly or far closer towards the end! Really anything goes!)

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!
> 
> have a great day, xoxo!


End file.
